Animorphs: Evolution
by Dwillliam
Summary: The underground war with the Yeerks has boiled over and been won, but when the Yeerk empire returns, no resistance is there to meet them. They have taken earth, and with it a weapon they had long sought: the Escafil Devices. The power to morph. A decade has passed, and the Yeeks hold on earth is still strong, but something is about to change in the City of Angels...
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

The underground war with the Yeerks fought by the infamous group of adolescents known as the Animorphs had boiled over more than a decade ago, resulting in the inhabitants of the pretentious little planet Earth realizing that they weren't the only intelligent life in the universe-and anything but. In addition they had also showed that they were ready to perform on the galactic stage, defeating the Yeerk Empire's invasion and colluding a treaty and trade rights with the Andalites. In a matter of months, the citizens of Earth went from arguing the existence of extraterrestrials to seeing a morphed Andalite devour a handful of cigarette butts. The Animorphs disbanded, Visser one was tried and convicted, and as it always does, life went on. They thought they had won. They thought that the war was over.

They were wrong.

Years later, the Yeerks returned, and despite the Earth's newfound skills and tactics, they were defeated by the Yeerk Empire. Earth's allies-the Andalites- abandoned them as quickly as they had treated with them, succumbing to their own agenda and defense. Earth's defenders-the Animorphs-were nowhere to be found, except the lone Cassie, whom was among the first attacked. She is presumed dead after the Amazon preserve she was overseeing was burnt to the ground along with countless free Hork-Bajir. With Earth's military ill fitted to pose a significant retaliation, the planet and its inhabitants were left to the will of the Yeerks, and with their hard-won hub of control firmly in their grasp, the Yeerks dominated the blue rock, washing over its surface like a flood. With their victory, a highly sought after prize was obtained:

A small blue cube; the Escafil Device.

The power to morph.

The Earthlings could only accept their fate, lest be irradiated like those who would oppose them…


	2. My Name is Connor

**Chapter 1**

My Name is Connor

* * *

My name is Connor Grayson.

It hadn't rained for six months.

That was my thought as I shuffled out of the cages. The ground was cracked and parched, a packed house of Yeerks on every side. They were on their feet with excitement, inhuman yowls of Hork-Bajir and Taxxons intermingled with the shouts of humans. It was nothing but flailing arms and talons as far as the eye could see. No sign of resistance, no show of distress. Just another day at the games.

It wasn't as hot as it could have been, but then again, Los Angeles was never known for its cold weather. I could feel the sun beating down on my bare shoulders as I kept my pace towards the center ring, the nearby Kadrona generator making the sky above an orange hue reminiscent of the stormy sunsets I remember seeing down south during high school.

The Astro-Turf in the old stadium had been replaced years ago, sandy dirt taking its place, dusty and loose with the heavy use it received. My feet didn't mind, they had been bare for so long that the calluses served as make shift shoe soles. The jeers from the crowd came to a crescendo as I entered the chalk circle that was the center of the ring, the concrete walls and aluminum seats bouncing the sounds around the dome. In another time the teeth-rattling roar of the crowd would have been a welcome sign of enthusiasm, exciting even, but now it was just the soundtrack to an already bleak sport.

I sized up my opponent as he mirrored my entrance, his own feet bare and dusty, and his hands were wrapped in what looked like torn up wife-beaters. He might have passed for a linebacker back when that was a thing that mattered, thick layers of muscle sitting underneath his dark scarred skin and broad shoulders. He was a good six inches shorter than me, but I came in around six foot myself. His head shone with a thin layer of sweat as he took his starting stance opposite me, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. The Yeerks saved all of their gladiators' heads. I guess it added to the spectacle, and the ease of cleanup.

My own hands were bare; I didn't need the cloth slowing me down for what came later. I was without a shirt too, though they rarely gave us them anyway. It was a wonder they let us wear the tattered shorts considering the way they treated us.

It was then I noticed the Hork-Bajir warriors standing at the floor level walls of the stadium. They probably put there to discourage or put down any would-be-escapees, but what did I care?

We were both dead men anyway.

The match started with what I guessed was a fog horn taken from an old tug boat. Wife-Beater-Hands rushed forward, closing the distance between us to use his weight and strength to his advantage. I'm no lightweight, but I wasn't built like the lug. I'm more on the long and lanky side of twenty-four, so it was in Wife-Beater-Hands' best interest to get in close so he could use his big hams. I noted that and brought my arms up, elbows tucked down to protect my sides.

The crowd roared as he lumbered up the rest of the ground, kicking up dust as he went, his hands up to cover his face. I let him take the first swing, earning me a wide right hook aimed at my head, but he threw too much of his weight behind it. I ducked and gave him two left and a right jabs to his kidneys for the trouble.

I rolled left as he took another wild swing at my head. I tucked it in as I tried to get my feet under me, but my body's momentum didn't cooperate and I ended up skidding to a halt on my side, my back facing my opponent.

I scrambled to stand up, my feet and hands kicking up more dust as Wife-Beater-Hands charged forward. The mob loved it, their sound turning from spectator sounds to a wave of cacophonous noise.

Before I could clear his strike zone however, I felt a cloth-covered hand grab my shoulder just above my collarbone, pulling me upright and holding me in place. He brought a hairy knee up into my gut-and hard. The sound of the crowd wavered as my ears popped with the force of the hit. I let out a harsh sound mixed with a garbled swear, straining to regain my breath before his next strike.

The man hit like a freight train, but he moved like one as well. His punches where wide and his movements, while powerful, were slow. If I could just catch my breath, I could turn the fight back in my favor.

The lug didn't seem to get the memo though.

He kept on, blunted fists hammering down on my head as I struggled to keep my hands up. He switched his attention to my sides, my elbows becoming hard pressed to stay in under the stress. I could hear only a dull ringing now, the crowd all but non-existent to me under the beating. I had to hold out; I had to stay upright just for a little longer.

Left, right.

Left, right.

Right, right, left.

My legs began to wobble. I could feel my right eye begin to swell shut.

Then a sound, barely audible with the pain and ringing.

The hits stopped, and without the stress of the fight providing me adrenaline, I collapsed, and with it the sounds of the stadium came rushing back at me like a hammer. Harsh yells and sounds of alien jeers roared around me.

"KILL HIM!"

"SCREEEE!"

"GHAFRASH!"

I looked up through my one good eye as Wife-Beater-Hands backed away and out of the ring. I noticed dully that the tattered white cloth was now stained red. That was a cheery sight. I didn't bother rising to my feet. It wouldn't help me any in round two. Instead I tried to find my calm and let my heart slow down the best that I could under the circumstances. Round one was really just for show anyway.

Round two was where the real fight happened.


	3. Round Two

**Chapter 2**

Round Two

* * *

I closed my one eye and focused on the thundering heartbeat in my ears, trying my best to ignore the coppery taste of red in my mouth. I formed a picture in my head, a construct that while I knew was unnecessary, helped me facilitate my next move.

I pictured a library, the New York Public Library actually, all wood and open spaces and flanking balconies. I called up memories of the acrid taste of venire polish in the air and the dusty smell of books on the shelves. High windows let in light, but it was muddy and soft with the surrounding skyscrapers. Every movement I made in the room was echoed ten-fold on the scuffed hard wood floor. The building probably didn't exist anymore, at least not in the form as I remembered it, but it didn't matter. In my mind, it was as quiet and wonderful as when I saw it when I was a child.

This was my mind.

At least, that is what I imagined my mind to be. An old man once told me that our mind was a palace of information and its wealth was always within ones grasp, it was up to the individual to learn how to use it. For me, my construct of the library was the representation of my mind, and it helped me focus.

Outside became irrelevant as I waited for the horn to sound for the next round. All of my attention was on my footsteps and the rows of books in my head. I walked through the stacks that I had imagined, past volumes of collated data and experience. I turned a corner to find the target of my search: a square cage, its wrought iron bars thick and rusted. The flooring was a mixture of hay and sawdust.

Above the twig-ridden floor paced a full-grown adult Lion, its coat and mane a light shade of off white. It eyed me as I approached, its breaths coming out in low chuffs. I let my own breaths match it, closing my eyes as I did.

I had regained my focus, and maybe even a second wind with it. I opened my eyes just as the horn claxoned, signaling the start of the real fight.

With the caged albino lion still held firmly in my mind's eye, I relaxed my muscles. The lion was a symbol to me. One of strength, resilience, and-more importantly-the DNA that I had floating in my bloodstream.

I looked up from my place in the dirt to my opponent, a broad grin on the brute's face. He let out a throaty laugh that I thought sounded vaguely Russian.

The thing with morphing was that even with its vast potential, it had never quite nailed down the non-nasty part. It was eerie, uncomfortable, gross, and unsettling as hell for everyone involved. Whether you where the morphie or the morpher, it was more than a few levels of ick.

I already had the image of the lion prepped and ready, so my changes came first. I felt the follicles around my neck stand on end as if I had just walked into a meat freezer with a wet swimsuit on. But instead of a rush of gooseflesh all over my skin, I got the beginnings of what would become a mane.

My hands flattened themselves out as if a Loony Toon had dropped a bowling ball on them-complete with unruly crunching noises. However, before I could marvel at the sight muscle filled in, while the bones in my fingers receded, creating large, solid paws.

Meanwhile, the rest of my body began to contract, muscles moving around and changing shape as they stopped being the inefficient meat of a human. The lion was a mammal thankfully, so I didn't lose or gain anything weird. I had heard that going into another species could be one of the strangest things you could experience.

Apart from-you know-morphing.

As I became lithe and muscled, Comrade-Wife-Beater-Hands began bulking up. Dark fur covered his whole body, and his shoulders became broader, which was saying something to how big he got. His face extended out into a muzzle, and his eyes got black and beady. His shorts started to creak as they were pushed past their limits as muscled thighs changed to furry and blubbered. I noted at some level how natural his morph was, not due to any effort of his own, but from the simple fact that the man was already build like a brick shit house. The pounds of blubber that got added onto his rounding body didn't make him seem weaker, but then again, I can't imagine anyone ever accusing a black bear of being weak.

My vision shifted, changing to the predator tuned sight that allowed the Lion to own the name "King". I flexed my muscles experimentally and shimmied out of my shorts just as Boris ripped through his. I'd decided on the name Boris for the lug strictly by coincidence. It had nothing to do with his possible nationality.

Honest.

My new fur-tufted-tail whipped out of the waistband of my abandoned shorts as it finished growing to its length. At the same time I saw Boris trip over his own pair, his legs shortening into thick stumps like a gopher retreating into its burrow. He wobbled, his arms cart wheeling comically in the air before toppling to the ground, a cloud of dust accompanying his fall.

The crowd loved it. The jeers only grew louder and this time they were accompanied by lobed debris ranging from hunks of rock to bowls of food directed more or less in Boris' direction. He was visibly disoriented, and his morph reflected that. His slow changes became rapid and disjointed-all odd shapes and disturbing parts. It was obvious to me that he hadn't been doing it for long. Which made sense if I thought about it. Considering the rate of survival of us gladiators, this could be Boris' first time morphing.

I let him finish. I had been fighting for a while now and I figured it would be unsporting for me to fight the guy when he literally had his pants down. It was a sentiment that would probably get me killed one day, but, hell. I was only human.

I waited until he had come up on all fours and had regained some level of composure. Before he could make his move though, I set my feet and reared my head up, peeling my lips from my teeth and letting out a forceful roar.

Back in the Earth-that-was, I remember watching old Bruce Lee movies. I wasn't always the strongest guy around and I liked seeing a small stature man take on foes twice his size and come out on top. However, people would always mock his fighting style-specifically his exclamations of "Wha!" or "Woo" before or after a strike. Others would say that it was an act, something manufactured for cinematic effect.

What they didn't realize though, was that every movement and action Lee made in martial arts was intentional and served a purpose, however small. He even formed his own style- Jeet-Kun-Do -to subvert what he felt was unnecessary forms and traditions of classic martial arts.

The guy just didn't do inefficient.

No, his trademark yells were a ploy, a calculated move designed for the sole purpose of disorienting ad distracting his opponent. As my roar bounced around the stadium and off of every standing body in it, I remembered Bruce Lee's tactic. And a lion's roar is a hell of a lot more disorienting than a yell from a 170 pound man.

I allowed my satisfaction with his reaction to drip into my thought-speak.

«Round two Yogi. »


End file.
